


Oughts and Truths

by 9_of_Clubs



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bittersweet, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 04:49:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4692620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/9_of_Clubs/pseuds/9_of_Clubs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a little flattering, and a lot more than a little big head inflating, to know how thoroughly he holds Hannibal. And the other makes no secrets of it anymore, not as long as Will is reaching for him… allowing him to reach back. There’s relief in choice. In the parts of him that died in the waves. Of Hannibal, too. All the bluffs eroded.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oughts and Truths

“You ought to be resting.” Hannibal chides as he pads soft into the room, as quiet, anyway, as the weary drag of his muscles will let him. Another hidden house tucked away amidst the grandiosity of nature. In the woods this time, though, Will thinks wry, chosen for his benefit, and unaccompanied, now, by the constant track of a stolen police car. It is only them here, in the silence, them and the quiet haunt of ghosts. 

The newspapers have declared death, their blood at the scene, two murderers dead, maybe a third, and they aren’t wrong, not entirely. But that doesn’t make it safe, even if it’s a start. Someone somewhere will know they aren’t, will know better than to assume. Too many enemies left in their wake to expect the waves to obscure their path completely. But he’s glad for a breath. He doesn’t think either of them could weather a chase right now, the salty burn of the ocean still an all too loud echo of sting in his mind, and even the memory sends shudders curling through his spine. Pain like that, despite everything, he hadn’t experienced before. 

Another shift of foot and he’s standing behind where Hannibal’s fingers are dancing along the keys, spilling out nameless melodies that are tinged with bittersweetness. “Says the man, who -” Without breaking in rhythm, Hannibal slides over and makes space, yields to the unasked request. “is supposed to be recovering from a gunshot wound.” In the space of a breath he’s occupying it, still distance between them, but it’s closing quick. “And managed, if I recall correctly, to reopen it no less than three times, between there and here.”

A pause of noise, eyes to his, the faint play of a smirk, though exhaustion lines Hannibal’s eyes also, no less than his own, and then the chords are sounding again. 

“It is not my fault we found our way into the water-” 

No accusation, only the whisper of resignation, but Hannibal sounds no more or less concerned than when discussing Will’s choice in aftershave. (fully washed away by the slap of sea, if you’re curious. Never, he suspects, to grace his skin again.) Though, he’d argue himself, there are much bigger things about him, to be concerned about. 

“- and one of us was not quite so prepared for the experience.”

A snort at that and without thought, he’s tucked his head into Hannibal’s shoulder, another sidelong gaze down to him, twining the melodies around them. But no comment, only the whisper of a sigh, too small to be noticed, if he couldn’t feel it ripple through Hannibal’s body..

It’s a little flattering, and a lot more than a little big head inflating, to know how thoroughly he holds Hannibal. And the other makes no secrets of it anymore, not as long as Will is reaching for him… allowing him to reach back. There’s relief in choice. In the parts of him that died in the waves. Of Hannibal, too. All the bluffs eroded. 

“Maybe it is.” He murmurs back, eyes falling closed, tired again, already. It isn’t unkind, exactly, maybe not even fully honest. But he presses.

A different Hannibal might have thinned his lips, narrowed his eyes, found a blade to slit throats at a perception of slight. But this one rumbles laughter beneath him. “Well -” And whatever is coming, Will suspects by the entertained swoop that makes lines the syllable, the unbidden warmth it fills him with, it is going to-. “If you could not help falling for me.” Cue groan. “There is possibility I have fault in that.” 

He thinks Hannibal might have begrudged him the icy swan dive, the blaze of salt in his cuts, the lack of communication, a little more, but fortunately in the moment, he’d chosen something for which the opportunity to play on words would be infinite. An infinitely, his own resignation now, he’ll be hearing it for.

But none of this is what he came out here for. Though the lines of Hannibal’s shoulder beneath his, uninjured, cheek, are a bonus. The familiar scent of him, muddied on surface by prison, but slowly wearing back to base.

A clearing of his throat, pushing some of the sarcasm that threatens reflexively back to make space for sincerity. “You ought to be resting.”

Another hum from that vibrates through him more than finds his ears. 

“Ought I to?” Appreciated irony, the iron of innocent stubbornness. 

So he nods back in much the same way, felt and not heard. But rises, one knee braced on the bench to lean forward and make it clear. A soft lilt of words and truth into Hannibal’s ear.

“Come back to bed, Hannibal.” Night three of no sleep will be the wrong thing if Jack comes knocking on the door. “You can close your eyes.” Aching relief in honesty, in the decisions to be honest, to simply think and say and forget about strategy and chess, about setting the board up to their own advantage. 

In simple breath, in vibration of air, he makes truth. “I’m not going to be gone in the morning.”

Truth that always seems to hit Hannibal with the force of say, a roiling ocean hit from hundreds of feet above. Hrm, maybe he’s funny too. 

The crescendo of chords tells him he’s right, and with a last look, open appreciation along lines of skin and bone, tucked away behind another sweater, too tired, maybe, or too raw, still, for the constraint of suits, he limps himself back to the bedroom himself. 

Through a doze, he hears sound cease, then a stretch that could be minutes, but might be hours, lost to the confused whirls of his tired brain, still cold at the edges, from the push of water. But then warmth and weight and he allows himself to be wrapped up. 

“That would be best, probably.” His tired lips, extra throbbing as the dose of medicine works towards completion, the next one still not allowed for hours. Nonsensical extra noises and strange oblique pauses in the words. But he forces them. “If you held me, probably, definitely couldn’t go anywhere, then.” Murmur to mutter to silence, but Hannibal knows, he trusts, and the arms tighten, careful. 

“Go to sleep, Will.” Around him soft like the touch. 

“Go to sleep, Hannibal.” He can’t help but chide back, if he had any kind of strength, he’d raise an eyebrow, pleased when he’s allowed the last word. 

Together, somewhere better than out to the ocean, they drift off.


End file.
